


Reflections on Poetry

by CirrusGrey



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Episode Related, Fluff, M/M, Scotland, Short, episode 165 spoilers, literally just jon being head over heels for martin for 600ish words, safehouse period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23932120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CirrusGrey/pseuds/CirrusGrey
Summary: (Minor) SPOILERS FOR MAG 165!!!Jon doesn't really understand poetry. Has never understood poetry, if he's being honest with himself.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 24
Kudos: 264





	Reflections on Poetry

It is late afternoon, and it is quiet. There is sunlight streaming in through the small kitchen window, shining over the bright metal of the sink and the dishes drying on a towel next to it. Shining across the clean wooden table, and the notebook laid open on its surface. Shining on the pen, held poised to the lips of the man who sits at the table as he stares off into the distance, eyes unfocused as he watches the world outside.

From where he's sitting on the couch, Jon has an excellent view of the whole scene, and his book hangs forgotten from one hand as he watches Martin think.

He'd been writing more, recently. Had picked up the small notebook in the village shop the day after they arrived in Scotland, and begun to jot down thoughts and fragments of lines soon after. Jon is glad of it; there's a certain life in Martin's eyes when he is writing that had been lacking for so, so long.

Martin shakes himself, glances down at the page and purses his lips. He makes one small change, a sharp movement of his pen across the page as he crosses out a word, and a small scribbling as he replaces it with another. A satisfied smile curls around his lips as he does so, and then it's back to staring out the window, thinking.

Jon doesn't really understand poetry. Has  _ never  _ understood poetry, if he's being honest with himself. It all seems like a mess of overcomplicated wording and convoluted sentence structures, blending together in a pretentious, self-indulgent fancy and taking five pages to say what could better expressed in under a paragraph of good, honest prose.

He won't say that to Martin, of course. There's something about the look he gets in his eyes whenever he completes a new draft, something about the cautious hope when he says he thinks it's good, something about the quiet pride in his voice when he reads it out to Jon, curled up against his side in the quiet of their shared bed.

It's not  _ good  _ poetry; in Jon's opinion, nothing is. But it's Martin.

Martin's brow has furrowed, nose scrunching in frustration as he looks down at his page, back out the window, up at the ceiling. He runs a hand through his hair, and glances over at Jon.

Jon doesn't have time to look away; doesn't even try to. He smiles, and Martin smiles back, an amused little twist to his lips as he realizes Jon has seen his frustration. He glances back down at his page, eyes flicking over the lines.

He freezes. His eyes widen. The smile spreads, turning into a grin, and he glances up at Jon once more as he lifts pen to paper.

Then he is writing, eyes fixed on the page, smile sliding away as his expression shifts to fierce concentration.

Jon flushes slightly as he realizes that  _ he  _ must be the subject of this poem.

Martin will bring it to him later, he knows. Hesitant and hopeful, though far less hesitant than he was even a few days ago. He'll sink into Jon's side as he begins to read it, a slight flush to his cheeks, voice soft but growing stronger as he goes. Jon will stay silent, keep his face neutral even as he struggles to understand the metaphors and allusions Martin has crammed into the lines, trying to parse out at least a small portion of what Martin intends it to mean so he can formulate a proper compliment afterwards. Martin will glow when Jon chooses some specific word choice or rhyme to heap praise upon, and they will kiss, and Jon will not feel guilty in the slightest for the lie.

Jon has never really understood poetry, the emotions it evokes in people. But he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he is starting to.


End file.
